


Show a Little Backbone

by recrudescence



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-30
Updated: 2011-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-15 06:01:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/pseuds/recrudescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You <i>would</i> find it appealing,” Eames grumbles, giving them both a wide berth as he steps inside. “Your home, your safe haven, and your one companion is something that could kill you."</p><p>Inspired by a kink meme prompt: <i>Arthur owns a snuggly pet ball python. Eames is terrified of it.</i> Title shamelessly stolen from <i>Raiders of the Lost Ark</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Show a Little Backbone

It's all protocol, leaving one member of the team in Sydney to make sure Fischer doesn't crack or exhibit any adverse effects after having his mind split open. Eames realizes he's the logical choice, since he's still familiar with the work environment from when he assisted Browning and he can be very good at ingratiating himself when he wants to. Still, that doesn't mean he takes it all with patience and professionalism. As soon as he's confirmed with Saito that Robert Fischer is, indeed, the poster child of a successful inception, Eames is on his way to his next destination in record time.

Arthur's eyes are hooded, easy, and there's a tiny smile tucking up the corners of his mouth just enough for his dimples to show. Eames never gets tired of knowing that someone as deadpan as Arthur has dimples. “Eames,” he says, and Eames feels himself melt a little, though it might be from the godawful length of his flight. “How was Sydney?”

It isn't as if he doesn't know already, since Eames didn't skimp on keeping him in the know about all things trivial and less trivial—the weather, the plans for Fischer-Morrow's dissolution, the hardships of being a few continents away from getting laid—so often it was probably ridiculous. “Wonderful. Nice and warm, too; I'm really not sure why I left.”

Arthur wraps his arms around him and Eames melts a little more. “It's good to see you.”

His fingers catch in the folds of Arthur's sweater, in the back pockets of his jeans, and he almost can't stop breathing in the scent of him long enough to speak. “Missed you.” His nose is buried in Arthur's hair, his voice is probably barely intelligible, and he knows he's holding Arthur too tightly for it to be comfortable. Eames draws back just enough to look him full in the face, running the tip of his thumb along the curve of Arthur's lips, enthralled by the way they come open under his touch. “Thought of you every day.”

And then Eames is kissing him, actually _kissing_ him again, actually getting to feel Arthur warm and solid and eager against him, there in his nubby red pullover with his hair in his eyes.

There's the softness of a smile against his mouth, the press of Arthur's very capable hands against his back, and Eames puts up no resistance as Arthur hauls him further in, tipping them both onto the couch. There's nothing graceful about their movements; it's a jumble of clinging and kissing and rutting against each other; it's Eames losing a shoe and Arthur's sweater getting rucked up under his arms, and there's more focus on the closeness than actually being naked but all that matters to Eames is that he's actually _here_ , in Arthur's apartment, with Arthur over him and against him and _touching_ him and he'll take anything he can have. Anything at all.

He has both hands on the taut curve of Arthur's arse and Arthur's hand is doing fantastic things to him through his seasonally inappropriate khakis, and that's when Eames sees it.

“Bloody _hell_.” He jumps off the couch like it's on fire, grabbing up his discarded shoe and brandishing it because for some _stupid_ reason he thought it was wise to come over unarmed. The more he thinks about it, the more he hates himself. Skimping on firepower has never been a good idea where Arthur's involved.

But Arthur just looks at him, bewildered. “Are you...okay?”

“Arthur,” Eames says, as calmly as he can, “don't be alarmed, but there's an enormous snake behind you.”

“Oh.” Those dimples come out in their full glory, then, as Arthur twists around to look over his shoulder and actually lets the thing crawl over the back of the couch and _onto_ him. “Were you going to club Reggie?”

Eames doesn't loosen his grip on the shoe. “It's _supposed_ to be here?”

“He,” Arthur corrects mildly. “And yeah, I let him wander around sometimes. It's good exercise.”

Arthur is actually petting that monster, stroking its scales like he's got a kitten on his hands instead of a fucking _python_. Eames still isn't sure this is actually happening and not some sort of horribly unfunny joke. “Good. Exercise.”

“Mm,” Arthur mumbles. “Here, you can get acquainted.” And he has the gall to proffer the damn snake, then look confused when Eames recoils.

“How,” he asks, in a voice just a tad higher than usual, “would you like to go back to my place? I hear room service is excellent.”

“I'm sure it is,” Arthur sounds like he might laugh, “but you're already _here_.” Always with the logic. Eames has every intention of fucking all the logic out of him as soon as they're someplace private and pythonless.

“So's that reptile. And I'm hungry and I know you probably don't have anything but jam and frozen pizza.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, but he nods. “Fine, whatever. Just let me feed Reggie first.”

In order to preserve his appetite, Eames flees.

 

\---

 

Stateside, things have been mellow. Cobb is still overcome with a mixture of joy and disbelief at being able to enjoy a life with his kids again and Arthur's been going round a regular amount, apparently keen to enjoy a little time to himself after so much time spent darting around the world.

Relief suits him. Granted, it's Eames's opinion that most things suit him, but there's something especially fascinating about an Arthur who isn't completely defined by his work. It's the kind of Arthur who isn't running point in the back of his mind while he sucks Eames's fingers, languid and naked and letting Eames slip them into him so slowly, until his toes are curled and his hands are wrenching at the sheets and his cock is leaving a wet patch against them. It's the kind of Arthur who sheds his inhibitions far more easily because he isn't hemmed into the role of Cobb's right-hand man anymore.

It's absolutely fucking mindblowing, that's what it is.

When Arthur has him over again, Eames tries to ignore Reggie and focus on the absolutely-fucking-mindblowing part of the equation. He tries as hard as he possibly can.

“I can't get it up while there's a snake in the room,” he blurts out, which is just awful timing, since Arthur happens to have his dick up his arse. “I'm sorry, I just can't.”

“Eames, he isn't _in_ the room. The door's closed. It's _locked_. Reggie is not a locksmith, he doesn't have opposable thumbs, and he's in his damn terrarium.”

“I _know_.”

“So, what's the problem?”

“ _Possibility. That_ is the problem. How do I know the glass in his cage won't disappear like that awful bit in the first Harry Potter?”

Arthur pulls out and rolls onto his back, an arm draped over his eyes. “Oh my God, you cannot be serious.”

“I just need a minute,” Eames says. He hesitates, pecking Arthur on the cheek before slipping off the bed. “Maybe a drink.”

Arthur makes a garbled sound of despair and points to the door.

Eames gives him a pat on the leg. “Only a minute, love. Promise.”

He goes rummaging around, checking the refrigerator for beer, and of course there isn't any because Arthur's organizational skills all seem to curl up and die at the kitchen. There's a mini-fridge in the living room which he opens despite his better judgment, finding it full of frozen mice, and Eames thinks for a moment he might actually cry.

“Oops.” Arthur comes padding up behind him, slipping both arms around his waist.

Eames closes his eyes, letting his head fall back against the warmth of Arthur's shoulder. “Do you want to explain this or should I not even ask?”

“Pre-killed meals are a much smarter option than live, even though that's not how it would go in the wild,” Arthur admits, and is it just Eames's imagination or does he actually sound a little _sheepish_ about it? Only Arthur would feel this strongly about getting top-notch dinners to a _snake_.

“I can't even begin to touch on how many things about that statement disturb me,” whispers Eames. “And I still need a drink. Or several.”

 

\---

 

The next time he swings by Arthur's, he mentally prepares himself, brings his own beer, and tries not to think of all the python facts he looked up online the previous day.

He doesn't count on showing up to have Arthur _and_ the damn snake greeting him at the door.

“You _would_ find it appealing,” Eames grumbles, giving them both a wide berth as he steps inside. “Your home, your safe haven, and your one companion is something that could kill you.”

“Are you talking about yourself or Reggie?” Arthur looks at him innocently, the snake draped over his shoulders like he's Britney Spears, and Eames feels a powerful need to be on the other side of the door.

“Darling, I can handle most of your idiosyncrasies, I really can. But this is something else. I'm going home. Come over when you finish snuggling with that thing.”

“A hotel room is not a home,” Arthur tells him, with unforgiving incisiveness. “Give him a chance. They're actually fascinating animals.”

“So are many things, like polar bears and warthogs and humpback whales. That doesn't mean I want them under my roof. Look at him; I swear, he's ready to take a chunk out of me right now.” The snake is regarding his bare arms much too speculatively for Eames's liking. He edges back another step.

“This is my roof,” Arthur says demurely. “He just likes you because you're warm, not because he wants to chew your face off.”

“That's another thing. I don't _like_ the way he looks at me. Not to mention he eats small, adorable things.”

“ _That_ is called the food chain,” says Arthur, settling into a papasan. “Yusuf should be able to tell you all about it. Maybe if you're good he'll go into whether the earth is actually round. Besides, it's a good sign Reggie has a healthy appetite for his mice. I had this one friend, Nisha, in college, who had a Burmese python. He was this huge, adorable guy and his name was Salma Hayek—”

“Your friend had a _male_ snake named Salma Hayek?”

Arthur just rolls right on, wrapped up in reminiscing and making absurd little kissy-faces when Reggie slithers up his arm. “She'd let him sleep next to her and everything. It was so sweet.”

“You're seriously deranged.”

“But then,” Arthur shoots him a warning glance, “Salma Hayek stopped eating. This lasted for weeks, so Nisha took him to the vet to see if anything was wrong. The vet asked her if she'd noticed any unusual behavior, so she told him how she'd usually let him sleep beside her. Then she mentioned how he'd been a little more sluggish lately, just cuddling up to her and lying there. And the vet looked at her and said, 'You need to have that snake put down. As soon as possible.'”

“Why?” Eames asks reluctantly.

“Because the reason Salma Hayek stopped eating and started being more cuddly was because he was trying to figure out whether Nisha would fit in his stomach.”

For what may very well be an hour, Eames stares at him in horror. “Tell me you made that up.”

“Nope.”

He stares a little more. Arthur's long and has some good tone to him, but he's thin; it shouldn't take much effort at all for a sizable reptile with murderous eating habits to swallow him down. “Christ, Arthur, what if you wake up and he's _eating_ you?”

“That's ridiculous. I always put him away at night. Besides, they squeeze their prey to death first.”

Eames feels like he should be clutching a set of pearls, or perhaps a rosary. “I'm leaving. Call me in the morning so I know you're alive.” He swallows, venturing close enough to rest a hand on Arthur's cheek while the snake's looking the other way. “Please, please be alive.”

Arthur inclines his head enough to kiss the base of Eames's thumb. “Relax. I've known Reggie longer than I've known you.”

That just makes Eames resent the damn thing even more.

 

\---

 

“It's just stupid for you to stay in a hotel,” Arthur tells him. The two of them are back in Eames's room, entangled amidst the covers. Arthur still has one sock on and Eames can't bring himself to mention it.

“Fuck all if I'm crashing at yours. There's a snake in it.”

“But it's so much bigger. And my bed's nicer. And there are personal belongings for you to try and snoop through.”

Eames snorts. “ _Try_?” Then, more seriously, “It's not an issue. I'm fine where I am.”

Arthur's face softens. “You don't seem like you're in any hurry to leave. I'm just telling you. I don't mind.” He moves, spooning up behind Eames, tightening his arms around him and dropping a series of unhurried kisses over his nape, traveling up behind his ear. “And when it comes to having anyone in my place who isn't Reggie, I usually mind.”

Eames sighs, turning over until his face is half-hidden against Arthur's chest. “I can't compete with that thing.”

“You wouldn't be competing, you'd be cohabiting.”

“Are you asking me to move in with your _snake_?”

Images flow through his mind, forming and merging like the contents of a rapidly twisting kaleidoscope. Arthur's neat apartment, Arthur's ruefulness about the mini-fridge full of frozen mice, Arthur tapping away on his laptop with his python dozing beside him, Arthur touching Reggie with as much care as he touches _him_. Thorny, serious, loyal Arthur who has dimples when he smiles and isn't anywhere near as reptilian as his reputation makes him out to be.

“I can board him.” Arthur sounds calm and a bit indulgent. “At least for a little while. I do that when I'm away.”

“I had no earthly idea you could board a python. Who'd want him?”

Arthur glares. “Look, asshole, I'm willing to make a pretty big concession if it means you'll stop being an idiot. How long do you really want to live out of a hotel?”

Honesty is fluid. Eames knows this. Honesty is tossing new ingredients into an old recipe, it's the smears and striations of a painting left in the rain until there's no trace of the previous image. It's less about the snake and more about seeing Arthur in his native habitat because, in this case, honesty is Arthur with his guard down, Arthur trusting him enough to let him in, and Eames will keep right on scapegoating Reggie like hell in order to hide how much that rattles him.

He kisses him, easing his tongue into Arthur's mouth, feeling the way his hair slips easily though his hands, freshly washed and free of product and wonderfully soft when he shifts to press his lips to the crown of Arthur's head. Eames lets his fingers run through it for a long time. “I need space,” he finally says, when Arthur's eyes are lidded and he's on the verge of drifting off against him. “I can't be mucking around with someone's passport and then jump and ruin hours of work because I see that monster out of the corner of my eye.”

Arthur doesn't open his eyes, but he smiles. Eames finds himself wishing he could touch him everywhere at once. “I'll make a schedule of when I plan to let him out and post it on the refrigerator.”

“So considerate.” Eames bends, kissing just beside the peak of a nipple, and Arthur obligingly arches into the touch with a small sigh.

“You're not, though, are you?” Arthur asks, curling a hand around Eames's waist, squirming as Eames takes that nipple between two fingertips for a second before working his hand downward. “Working, I mean. Mucking around. You're here because you want to be, not because no one's hiring.”

“There's always a market for my kind. Cobb says you might start working for the government again.”

Arthur yawns, stomach tensing as Eames draws a thumb back and forth through the trail of hair below his navel. “They want me to help run trainings, you know. Things like hostage negotiation. It sounds kind of fun.”

“Maybe not the word I would use,” murmurs Eames, nipping just above Arthur's clavicle. “Open up for me, sweetheart.” Kissing, touching, feeling Arthur hum and arch as he hardens in Eames's hand, and Eames takes his time rubbing the sticky head of his cock against his belly. He lets Arthur wriggle and whine for a minute, then goes lapping up the slender length of his throat, pressing a finger further back, toying with the idea of letting it slip inside again, probing over his entrance without slipping in. Over and over, teasing there until Arthur is hissing-- ** _fuck_** , there--and his erection is straining and stained damp at the tip.

“This isn't a hostage situation,” Arthur says, halting. His hips are rocking steadily, body a slim, beautiful play of smooth skin and liquid muscle, long fingers wrapping around Eames's arms. Eames prods up inside him with two fingers and he curses, his forehead sweaty against the nook of Eames's neck and shoulder, one of his hands working between their bodies in order to touch himself. “This is just something I want. It doesn't mean you have to want it too.” He moans, tongue flickering against Eames's lips when he wets his own, and Eames's mouth parts for him. Eyes closed, voice quiet and solemn, the slightest tremor to it when Eames finger-fucks him a little harder. “It's all right if you say no.”

He can't put a bead on when this happened, this glorious, aching cycle of making him fall apart and Arthur letting him make him fall apart. Strictly speaking, it's not the most prudent decision for people like them, but Eames breaks convention like he breaks laws and Arthur is writhing against him, gasping, wild and lovely and coming into his hand and over both their stomachs, eyes wide and dark and guarded when he opens them.

“Eames,” he says, and they slide closed again. “Why the hell am I still wearing a sock?”

Eames leans over him and strips it off, letting it drop to the floor. His hand travels up the length of Arthur's body, coming to a stop over Arthur's own where it rests on his chest.

He thinks he feels Arthur's breathing stutter, just for a moment.

“I'm not saying no,” says Eames.


End file.
